Chapter 37.5
While Norvil crumbled into chaos, River had already vanished into the distance. The gods had shown themselves, an omen, unmistakable, of what was coming. The sky had turned dark, smoke and fog engulfing what had once been his home. And yet, River had something that tugged at him. A plan was brewing, between fear and anxiety, the next steps were becoming clearer. Syronia’s words echoed faintly in his mind. The prophecy, cryptic as it was, had left behind fragments that clung to him. “One shall rise to rally kin...” Strange words, but they stirred something in him. Maybe it was his link to something ancient.
He didn’t fully understand it, not yet. But he knew where he needed to go. Varosha. That would be his next move: rest, regroup, think. Kamir and Myra hopefully they knew something about what was happening. He knew they’d have ideas a way to figure out where to go from here. Then he would go to the temple and seek Sylas.
His feet were blistered, and his palms felt like a pincushion. Still, he didn’t stop. He held on to the hurt like a rope—something real to clutch, something louder than the thoughts. Instinct roared at him to let his essence loose, knit skin, hush nerves. He refused. The cold of numbness wasn’t his friend; for now pain was his greatest ally.
The wall that had once stood proud had slumped further, its ruin accelerated by the gods’ release. Wards that used to thrum like hive-song now flickered, their glow of essence thinned to gauze. Runes bled down the stone, chalk turned to dust. Its frame, arches, buttresses, the stubborn old spine, felt soft somehow, waterlogged bread under a hard crust. Wind pushed through new fractures and came out tasting of copper. Here and there little sparks of ward light drifted up and went out, like fireflies that had lost the map home.
River pressed his fingers to a block and felt a weak pulse underneath, out of rhythm with his own. It wanted him—wanted feed, repair, something. Calira warmed his ribs in warning. Don’t, not here.
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He let go.
Behind him a length of crenelation sighed and folded, stone to gravel in a single breath. Dust lifted, then settled on the road in a thin gray skin. People kept moving anyway—Order still drummed in their bones, and he matched the beat, one sore step, then the next, then the next.
He sensed no guards, no patrols. It was desolate. He stepped onto the wastelands; this time, no protest followed.
-
The sand beneath his feet thrummed with essence; the fog around him knit into a shield against whoever hunted. His reserves were thin—threadbare—and the cold had crept up his arms; a dull hammering gathered behind his eyes and grew with each breath. He let the veil drop. The borrowed edges unstitched; bones moved and popped beneath liquid skin. His own face settled back into place, hot with wind and grit. This had to be far enough for now. He didn’t really believe it, but choice was a luxury he’d spent.
With every step away from Norvil, the air felt a shade lighter, the horizon a fraction wider, even if the weight in his chest kept its stone.
-
A few days passed with nothing but sand at his sides and the stars steering him on. Calira’s silence weighed more than he’d guessed; they were both grieving, neither ready to name it.
At last the ground changed, there, the low thrum of the dungeons rose through his soles as he neared Varosha. The smell hit next: cold stone, old metal, the sour tang of overworked wards. Overwhelming, as always. And somehow comforting. He knew where he was. He knew who he was going to see.
Calira’s voice broke through like fire through ice, thin but steady. “At least we’ll be home soon.”
He hadn’t thought to call it that. But as the words settled, he realized this was the one place that had ever fit. “Yeah,” he said, rough. “It will.”
He couldn’t help picturing Kamir’s expressions—the small wince at the bad news, his jaw tightening, that careful silence that always clung to him like armor. Their disappointment would be quiet. He imagined walking through the gate and finding that look waiting, and a thin, childish part of him wanted to keep walking until the map ran out. Calira warmed his ribs, but the word still found him and settled there like dust: alone, again.
-
The world was too silent without his friends; even the dungeons felt muted, their usual thrum pared down to a hush as he moved. Then the pyramid, the temple of Sylas, speared the skyline, the ward light snagging on its angles. His heartbeat kicked up; excitement rose, and for a single, treacherous moment, the pain disappeared.
